Schwick in the Big, Stinkin' City
by NEOmi-triX
Summary: We all know the story of Courage rescuing his owner from the giant roach named Schwick in a room underneath the city, but what if they were all human, and the story had been told by Schwick himself? See how different the same story can unfold when told by the villain...
1. The Way Things Went Downhill

**Author's Note:**

My first story on Fanfiction!

_Disclaimer: the characters and storyline are copyrighted by John R. Dilworth and Cartoon Network. Although I did make up some parts of the story and some characterizations._

(By the way, I drew the cover art. X3)

**:::Please remember that this is an AU where all the characters are human and the events are realistic.:::**

* * *

The business crept up on me. I didn't really ask for it, but when the time presented itself, I seemed to have fit the bill. I'd blame my upbringing, if you can call it that, but I'm not stupid; I know my own character is the problem. Well, since I couldn't escape it, I decided to embrace it. Seemed simple enough.

Now the dang business is my life. Always working, always waiting, always pretending. Lurking behind this old theater, known as "that shady guy..." Ah, it's time. I've been watching an old couple and what looks to be their grandson outside the entrance to the theater for a little while. I hear them talking about finding the entrance or something, and snatch the opportunity.

I flick out a cigarette and light it, with one hand still in my pocket. I shove it to the corner of my mouth, and after breathing in deep, I exhale a puff of smoke into the already murky city air.

"Hey," I whisper, beckoning to the old lady, who, I now realize, is holding the case of some instrument. The three turn to look at me; I'm hiding behind the corner of the theater. I let out another puff of smoke and my lips curl up in a friendly smile.

"Come 'ere," I say nicely. They come nearer, the idiots. The grandma looks completely naïve, and the grandpa lingers behind grumpily. The little kid is practically being dragged from his wrist by the old lady; he looks terrified and cautious of me. Smart kid.

I can tell by the clothing underneath their coats that they're from the country. Perfect. When they stop next to my corner I step out and greet them with a small bow.

"Ya lookin' ta get in?" I ask, blowing my smoke through the corner of my mouth and away from their faces. "The show don't go on for hours, but I can get you in real quick-like..." I glance at the back door behind me on the side wall of the theater labeled, "Back Door."

They talk between themselves and I wait patiently. I try not to look at the kid, who's huge, scared eyes are staring right at me. I wonder if they'll fall for it... I overhear "won a contest" and pounce all over it.

"You won a contest?" I butt in, faking surprise and excitement. The old lady lifts her instrument case slightly.

"Yes, the sitar contest!" She says, with some Scottish accent, happy to be recognized.

"Then you can come through the _special artists_ entrance," I say, smiling, and motion toward the back door with one hand.

"I ain't going through any door I don't know what's on the other side," the old man states angrily.

I frown. Maybe I need to rethink my choice of victim... I try one last trick to reel them in.

"I got hotdogs!" I say, removing my cigarette for a moment and shrugging.

"Works for me!" says the grandpa immediately. I take it back—these may be my easiest targets yet. I step back and open the back door wide, politely, or rather precautiously, letting them go first. The door closes behind me and we walk down the scarcely-lit hallway behind the theater. I think I see the kid shiver under the dim lamp light; he glances around nervously.

As we walk, my phone vibrates. They don't notice, and I fall behind for a moment as I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket and hold my cigarette in my other hand. There's only one guy with my number—the boss. I do my best to gulp down my anxiety and flip open my phone. Walking very slowly behind them, I hold my phone to my ear.

"Aye," I greet the boss.

"Where the heck are you, Buschwick." The boss is angry with me, as usual.

"I'm at the theater," I say, but he interrupts.

"You know how many times you've messed things up for me, Michael?"

"No, sir—"

"Well hurry your ugly hide up. We have that job tonight." The boss' tone is slow and dangerous. "You remember, right, Mike?"

For the love of—I forgot all about it... I curse my scattered brain.

"Yeah, of course, boss," I lie. I run my fingers through my choppy hair and shut my eyes.

"You _better_ be ready, you lousy..." he hangs up.

I realized I've stopped in hallway. I put my phone away and quickly jump to catch up with the couple and the boy, who were blankly walking along. They hear my heavy footfalls and look over their shoulders at me. The kid startles. I see the elevator ahead; good, they didn't pass it.

I reach the elevator door before they do and pull the lever to open the doors. We all get inside and the doors rattle closed. It's an old-style elevator; it has a metal sort of trap outside the glass doors that looks like a fence. You can see the dirty wall in front of you rise as the elevator descends to the basement. As we go down, I feel I should break the silence and maybe make myself forget my worry over tonight.

"By the way," I say coolly; I stick the cigarette back in my mouth and breathe a few times to get it warm again. "The name's Michael Buschwick." I inform the next important information to anyone I meet: "But don't ever call me that. Just call me Schwick. Not Michael, not Buschwick, _just Schwick._" I scratch the short hairs on my jaw and examine the ceiling of the elevator.

"Where are you from?" The Scottish lady asks.

"Bushwick," I say. You can call that Bushwick, but not me. Me, you call Schwick. _Just Schwick_." I'm about to say, "you got it? _Schwick!_" To get my point across, but I remember what I'm doing and who they are, and immediately regretting what I _already_ said, I shut my mouth.

The elevator screeches to a stop and after a moment of effort, the doors wiggle open and the fence clinks together as it folds. We step out into a separate hallway two floors underneath the stage, even darker and damper and the last. On the right side is my door. It has a sign on it—"Rehearsal Room."

"This here's the rehearsal room," I say as I unlock the door and open it for them to walk in. "It's where you can rehearse. Just rehearse."

We all enter, me in the back. The cold penetrates the fabric of our clothes and the same smell of smoke that's clinging to me lingers in the air; I breathe it in. There's a chair with all kinds of holes and patches, sitting in front of the old television hanging from the ceiling. There's holes in the walls, too, scattered around chains that are hooked to the walls and dangling down sadly, in still columns. I glance at the mouse hole—all blocked and chained up, just as I'd left it. The whole room is lit with a dim light bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling, therefore concealing the corners of the room—and the bone piles in them—in darkness.

I walk over to the little green table set up near the back wall with my almost-empty liquor bottle, shot glasses, small notebook, and ashtray. I take the cigarette from my mouth and crush it into the tray. Refraining from lighting another, I turn to face my new guests.

The grandma seems excited, and doesn't go to any length to hide it. She sits down and starts to pull her sitar out of the case. The kid sticks close by her, his eyes darting around the room frantically, but doesn't seem to acknowledge when the grandpa meanders over and plops into the rickety chair.

"Wow! A T.V.!" He said, now much more excited than grumpy. "You got a remote?"

"Two thousand channels," I tell him as I hand him the remote from the chair arm. "Go ahead, knock ye'self out!"

"Make that hotdog a footlong!" He added. I ignore him now.

As they settle in, I sit at my green table. I keep remembering how I'm not prepared for tonight... but I need to act calm in front of these people. I pour myself a shot and gulp it down.

I've been watching the kid for a time, out of the corner of my eye. He seems terrified. I don't know how to feel about that.

The sitar lady starts practicing. The odd strumming sounds ring through the musty air and echoes from dark corners. The kid sits next to her and clings to her arm. The old man is flipping through channels. I lean back on my green chair, wishing I had time to prepare properly. If only I could get the package at the apartment...

The grandchild's eyes catch mine. He stares at me and I stare back. I can see him shiver from across the room. Suddenly I have a solution.

I get up and walk towards him, bringing the notebook. I pull him away from the sitar lady by his arm; the lady continues to play. He jumps as I speak.

"I got an errand that needs some runnin'," I say, as nicely as I know how to a child. But still he must sense a tone of urgency in me that, even for me, is hard to disguise. I rip a page out of the notebook and dig around in my jacket for a pen. I kneel down, turn him around, and write the note with his back as a flat surface. He lets me, but I wish he'd stop shaking. I stop myself from yelling at him to stand still, and finish the note. "3956 W 2374 N." He turns back around.

"I can't leave the premises," I tell him, thinking of a quick excuse, "because I've got sweepin' to do." I continue slowly. "Go to this address. There will be a package waiting for you there." He takes the note hesitantly and looks up at me with frightened eyes.

"Be back here with that package by curtain time," I lower my voice; "or it's _curtains_ for the sitar lady."

He nods vigorously, but I want to make sure he _truly_ understands.

I stay on one knee to be level with him. Even there I'm a bit too tall, so I lower my head, resting one arm on my propped-up knee and the other around the kid's shoulders. He feels cold, and he shakes under my embrace.

"You see that door?" I whisper, pointing at the mouse hole in the wall, sealed with a wooden door and a padlock. "You wanna know what's behind that door?" I answer before he can: "You don't wanna know what's behind that door. And you see those bones?" Now I can barely hear my own voice being drowned out by sitar chords. But judging by the kid's widening eyes, I'd say _he _could. Just to be sure, though, I lean in closer to his ear.

"You wanna know what made those bones?" I ask. This time I pause. The kid is frozen for a moment, then nods hesitantly, not taking his eyes from the bones that lay in the corner near the tiny door.

"You don't wanna know what made those bones..." I whisper into his ear. He starts to shake his head side to side in order to agree with me. I rise quickly and shove the kid toward the door.

"I'm sendin' your kid out for some coffee," I say loudly so the old couple will hear me. "Go!" I tell the kid.

Just as the boy reaches for the door handle, I remember something extremely important. I catch up to him in a couple of steps and, as he starts to open the door inward, I shut it again, holding it down with my hand. He stops and looks up at me. I look down at him as well, my arm rigid and my palm against the door.

"And no cops," I say. My voice is low, and purposefully menacing. I glare down at the terrified boy for a moment, letting the threatening silence finish my point: "or else."

I take my hand away from the door and open it for him, smiling. As he leaves I whisper "curtain time."

A moment later, my phone vibrates again. The fake smile drops from my face. Before I answer, I step outside and lean against the door with my back.

Once I lift my phone to my ear I almost forget to say something.

"...Aye."

"Listen, Michael," my boss says.

"Listening, boss."

"Shut up."

"Yessir."

"Why do I get the feeling your not ready for tonight, Buschwick?" he asks; his voice is angry and low.

"I don't know, boss," I say with fake innocence. "Why do _you_ think—"

"Don't you _dare_ lie to me, you homeless scum! Meet me at the place in an hour, got it?"

"Actually boss... I'm working on a job right now but I promise I'll be there tonight—"

"Don't give that crap to me!" The boss shouts. "You will be here in an hour, and if yo're not, you're going to regret it _big time_ later! You understand?"

"...Yeah, boss."

"Yeah? Well you better! I may even fire you anyway, you rotten insect!"

I say nothing.

"Mike!"

"Yeah?"

"One. Hour."

"Yeah."

I hear the line hang up with a quiet, static click. I feel like that kid, now. I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger as I put my phone away. Instead of sulking or hiding or yelling, like I felt like doing, I take the smoke packet out of my other pocket and open the top. There are two cigarettes left. I take the left one.

"Listen," I say to the old couple, as I walk into the room and close the door. The sitar lady looks up and stops playing, but the old man keep his eyes fixed on the television. I don't see any reason to conceal myself any longer, and my patience is running thin.

"Aye!" I yell. The old man jerks his grumpy head in my direction. Now that I have their attention, I puff a few times on my new cigarette.

"I got an important meeting comin' up now," I say. My voice is harder and louder and... more real. "You two are going to _stay here_. Don't sweat, gramma, the performance isn't for _hours_. Imma get you that hotdog, grampa." I lie to both of them. "But for right now I need you to _stay here_."

The reaction is not what I expect.

"Sure thing, Mr. Schwick," says the old lady.

"Eh," says the man. He continues to flip through channels. The lady starts again to play her sitar.

I smile for real this time. First time I been called "Mr. Schwick." I like it.

I lock the door from the outside; that's the only way it _can _lock. I wait for the elevator to come back down, and and fear creeps into my mind again. The next puff of smoke I exhale floats upward and almost conceals my vision.

* * *

The boss tightens his grip on the front of my collar, and his knuckles press into my neck. My cigarette is flickering out on the ground.

"Mikey," he says angrily.

I _hate_ that name, although I would have answered him. But all I could get out was a grunt.

"Sadly, I'm starting to _rethink_ my decision to hire you for the business in the _first place._" My heart skips a terrifying beat. "Frankly, Buschwick," he continues. "_You suck!_" He thrusts me against the wall and lets go of my collar. I grasp my neck and slump down, but I stay on my feet. After coughing a couple times, I raise my head and plead,

"You know I need this job boss, please!"

"Don't you _dare_ beg!" he shouts. "I should kick you out right now, if I had sense!"

"But..." I start hesitantly. "...you won't?" Now I'm hopeful.

He's tall enough to grab the hair on the top of my head and pull, lifting me up and closer to his face. I wince.

"No," he says. Relief fills me—but too soon. "I _am_." he punches me right below the ribs. The blow causes me to fold, but that only increases the pain on my head by wrenching my hair away from the boss' fist; he holds on, and before I can retaliate, he pulls me back up.

"You're a _joke_, Buschwick. Just a _sad joke_."

He lets go of my hair, and as I drop, he kicks my ribs; my back and head hit the wall. I try to stand, but my legs won't move and I drop to a sitting position. I let out a groan as the pain fogs my brain. I hear,

"Good riddance, Michael Buschwick."

My head lowers and I twist my face, trying to keep back the blood.

* * *

Well, my important meeting turned out to only take half an hour. I walk slowly to the "rehearsal room" door and fumble with the lock, finally getting it open. I walk in; the old couple is still there, and the kid is still gone.

"Oh my!" the sitar lady says. "What ever's the matter?" She's asking me, I realize. She can probably see the blood on my teeth. I stare at her for a moment... I don't know what to feel... sadness, gratefulness, shock, anger...?

I go with anger.

"None o' your businesses," I snap.

"See, none of our business," echoes the old man.

I walk across the room and sit painfully at the green table. I cover my face with one hand. The truth was, I was horrible. Not only am I in physical pain, but I was just fired. Now I don't have no source of income... no place to go... no one to turn to... criminal record won't get me nowhere... I even ran out of cigarettes.

I hear a knock at the door followed by a voice announcing,

"Curtain time in ten minutes."

Curtain time... the kid!

"Your kid better be back here soon with my—coffee," I say, impatient. I need that package...

As if on cue, the timid kid opens the door slowly. He was holding my package! I get up and rush toward him. He shrinks back, but I grab the package with a swipe of my arm. This could be my chance!

I open the package eagerly and look inside.

Rage builds up inside me. Partly for _this_ incident, but mostly for all the incidents of today, and even of my life. All this effort, all this despair, everything... ruined by a stupid kid. I can't hide it any longer. I don't want to.

"You broke it!" I exclaim. Nothing is holding my anger back. I curse at him, I curse at myself, I curse at the broken mess in the package. The old couple stares at me, shocked. The kid hides behind the grandma, petrified.

"Now it's curtains for the sitar lady!" I yell at the boy. I lunge at them both, but the boy pulls at the lady's arm and they escape through the partly open door with the sitar, leaving the old man and me behind.

"Nobody double crosses Schwick!" I swing the door open and pursue them to the elevator. I see the elevator doors start to close—they shut just as I skid to a stop in front of them. I snarl at the wide-eyed child through the bars, furious. The elevator rises past the ceiling and out of sight.

It's torturous waiting for it to come back down. My anger festers inside me, heating me up, making me impatient, all the while concealing my despair. Finally it comes down—I squeeze past the cage doors as they start to open and furiously yank the lever to tell the stupid machine to go up. It stops at the first floor, the floor we entered on. The hallway was empty. I want to jump out and run outside, but cops would see me for sure, and besides, I have a hunch the kid went a floor above me—the elevator had taken twice as long to come down. I heard applause up there, too.

I get out of the elevator on the second floor, the floor the stage is on. The applause is much louder now. I walk around the corner and see the audience cheering in darkness. I look to the spotlighted stage—it's the sitar lady. The boy is up there too, standing in front of front row, neck bent back, waiting for his gramma to perform. I walk quickly down the sloped, carpeted sidelines next to the seats, passing the ushers with rushed, heavy steps.

I near where the kid is standing, ready to seize him. But before I get there, a hand grabs the back of my jacket and yanks me back through an open doorway behind me. Through the backwards stumbling of my feet, I spin around and angrily face my obstacle.

It's a cop. He doesn't release his grip on my jacket. Our eyes lock for a moment, his are reflecting determination; mine are probably revealing anger, that changes into realization, that morphs into frantic fear.

"I said no cops!" I shout, my voice shakes a little. I meant to address the kid, but I knew he couldn't hear me. I slip my arms out of my jacket, escaping the policeman's grip, and race out of the doorway. I stop abruptly—there are two more cop in front of me. The ushers stand far away, watching me, afraid of the pathetic, but intimidating and furious, mess I am. A couple of the audience members have noticed the scene as well.

My arms are grabbed and snatched backwards.

"On your knees," I'm commanded. I drop to my knees; fear is starting to overcome my anger. I feel hard, sharp cuffs being snapped to my wrists and my shoulders are pushed down toward the floor.

"You're under arrest," a gruff voice informs me. I would try to escape, but there's no point anymore. Where would I go? At least in prison I'll have food and a bed.

I'm lifted to my feet. I glance over and see both the lady and the kid staring at me. I scowl and look away, angry, but almost ashamed.

"Looks like we finally gotcha, Buschwick," said a cop, satisfied. That sparks a final burst of anger in me. Of all people at all times, a cop calls me _Buschwick_ as he's arresting me.

"Schwick!" I yell in his face. "It's JUST SCHWICK!"


	2. Who Knew I Still Had Friends?

**Author's Note:**

I decided to go ahead and add two more chapters for Schwick, because I had a good story idea, and I love his character.

Mira and Eli are original characters created by me, but "Snow" is the humanized "Snowman" from the episodes "The Snowman Cometh" and "Snoman's Revenge." Same with Ivana. "Randy" is the humanized "Robot Randy" from the episode "Robot Randy" and note, they both have the same inner conflicts, though their stories are drastically different.

_Disclaimer: the characters and storyline are copyrighted by John R. Dilworth and Cartoon Network. Although I did make up some parts of the story and some characterizations._

(By the way, I drew the cover art. X3)

**:::Please remember that this is an AU where all the characters are human and the events are realistic.:::**

* * *

Slamming the door behind us, we scurry down the concrete steps and find ourselves in the dark-lit basement room. It is void of furniture, excepting a dirty couch and a dresser. An old, broken water heater is against the back wall. My wrists are bound by handcuffs and behind my back. We fall completely silent and our ears frantically listen for the sound we were afraid to hear.

All is quiet for a long moment—our shuddering breathing feels echoing, although it's nothing more than a whisper. We silently decide we are in the clear.

"Seriously?" I say angrily. I turn toward Mira and she looks at me, confused. "I didn't ask for help—I don't want help!"

"What's wrong with you?" She looks me in the eyes, daring me to answer.

I should feel grateful, but I was willing to go to jail, in fact, I almost wanted to! I had a better chance surviving there, even if it were behind bars. But when Mira came out of nowhere and "rescued" me, I followed her without much thought, mostly just consumed with adrenaline and fear. Now I realize what she has done.

"I don't have a chance out here..." I felt complete despair, and would have used my hands for emphasis if they weren't locked behind my back. Mira's expression was one of confusion and worry.

"I've never heard you talk like that before... What happened to you in the past ten years, Michael?"

"Schwick," I grumble. "Mira... my old boss is out to kill me... I have nowhere to go..."

The cops had looked at my phone and found out where the boss would be. I'm sure that they ruined his plans, and I'm positive he'll want me dead. I don't feel safe anywhere.

"What do you mean, you have nowhere to go?" She looks shocked at me. "_This_ is your home!" She gestures to the room.

This room was the same room Mira and I and our other childhood friends lived in years ago, when we had called our club of street kids a "gang." I had left the gang first, newly hired for the business and feeling on top of the world.

"All your friends are here for you," she told me.

"Friends...? Wait..." I said slowly. "The rest of the gang is here, too?"

"Of course! Well, right _now_ they're on the city."

They all stuck together, all these years... I was astonished. I was the only one who had split off... and now look at me.

"Don't worry, baby, your safe from whatever hell you got wrapped up in when you're here among friends."

And of course Mira is still in love with me.

I have no reason to believe a "magical love life" won't fall to ruin, because everything in my life so far _has_. If I'm being honest with myself... I'm too afraid to ever let myself fall in love. So, crazy as it may seem, I stay away from anything close. And that means brushing off Mira as often as I need. Although... It's difficult.

She draws closer and strokes the stubble on my jaw with her long nails. I twist my head to escape her caresses. She uses one sharp fingernail to gently force me to face her. I'm pretty incapable of doing anything, as my hands are still behind my back.

"Come on, baby," she coos. "Just give me a smile. I'll take a smile..."

I scowl.

"Mira, haven't you grown up yet?"

She frowns and puts her fists on her hips.

"Fine. You'll give in at some point."

"...Would you mind helping me out of these things already...?"

"Oh, yeah, Mira says. "Come here." She takes a bobby pin out of her long hair, and as a result her bangs fall over her face. I turn around and let Mira pick the lock on the cuffs. When they finally fall off and thud to the floor, I snatch my hands in front of me and clasp the red circles, rubbing them softly to maybe alleviate the soreness.

Within a moment of turning back around to face the room, I spot a pack of cigarettes on the dresser. I hurry over and pick it up—there are five.

"This Eli's?" If Eli hasn't changed, he'll hate me for taking one. But I'll hate myself if I don't. I reach for the pocket in my jacket I keep my lighter in, but only feel air. Oh yeah. My jacket, along with my lighter, my phone, and my twenty dollars cash, is still with the cops. I growl, frustrated.

"His lighter is in the drawer," I hear Mira say.

As soon as the cigarette is lit and between my teeth, I walk back and sit on one of the hard steps to relax; I would have gone to the couch, but I'd rather not have my clothes squirming with whatever grubby insects I'm sure reside in those cushions.

Mira sits next to me on the steps, but it's a tight fit since I don't scoot over to make room.

"When will the guys be back?" I ask.

"Soon..." Mira says. She sighs. "If I can't have a smile, can I have a 'thank you?'"

Well, I don't feel so hopeless anymore...

"Thank you," I mumble through my cigarette.

Mira smiles and leans her head on my stone shoulder. She plays with her long dark brown hair, twisting the waves in her fingers, and looks up at my face. I turn my head away.

"Get over it," I say, and get up suddenly, leaving her to wobble and find her balance.

"You know," she says sourly as I remove my cigarette for a moment to exhale. "It's a shame you're still smoking. It may look cool, but you'll die of lung cancer."

I turn and face her; I'm standing on the floor and she's sitting on the steps.

"I'm more worried about something _else_ killing me right now..."

She stares at me.

"That business... what have you gotten yourself into, Michael?"

"Schwick," I snap.

"I love you, Michael—"

"That makes one of us."

Mira's brows furrow.

"But you can be a real jerk," she finishes.

At that moment, Eli appears on the steps. He watches his feet and walks around Mira down the stairs. Hello, Miranda. What are you—" he looks up as he notices me, stopping on the bottom step.

"...Schwick? Is that really you?"

"Aye, Eli!"

He advances toward me and fondly shakes my hand. Suddenly, he clenches my hand tight and pulls closer to me, looking slightly up and directly into my eyes. His breath smells like my cigarette.

"If you're back for our position as leader of this group," he whispers darkly, "I'm telling you now I won't go down without a _fight._"

I pat him on the back heartily with my left hand, unable to release my right one from his grip.

"Don't sweat it, old pal, really." I try a reassuring smile. He was always power-hungry; I wasn't surprised he had taken over after me, and I honestly didn't want to take back his position.

He stares for another moment before he releases his grip. He grins.

"Good to have you back. You've really grown up. Remember when I was taller than you?" He laughed.

"Sure do," I say. "I'm still older than you," I remind him. He stops laughing.

"As if that matters," he says curtly. "So, Miranda," Eli turns and walks toward the dresser with his cigarette pack on top. "Where did you find this guy and why is he here?"

"He was being arrested," she begins. Eli glances at me with a half-surprised, half-amused expression. "And now he's being chased by a vengeful mobster who used to be his boss.

"You really rapped that up, Mira," I mumble.

"You dirty scoundrel!" Shouts Eli. He's looking into his cigarette pack, which is one short. "That's my cigarette, isn't it!" He's pointing at me. I shrug, unable to defend myself.

"You haven't changed a bit, Eli ol' boy—" I begin.

"I won't forget this, Buschwick!" Eli snarls.

"It's _Schwick_, Jacobson! I raise my voice.

"Boys, calm down, will ya?" Mira says calmly. "You two are may too much alike to ever get along..."

Eli and I both utter disagreements.

"Such children..." I hear Mira whisper to herself. She looks at Eli now. "Eli? Where are Snow and Randy?"

Before Eli could answer, we hear the feet of what must have been Snow and Randy come down the stairs. As soon as Snow's bright white hair comes below the ceiling, he sees me and his eyes grow wide with excitement.

"My friend!" he exclaims in his deep Scottish accent. I'm slightly intimidated when he bounds toward me, only because he's bigger—up _and _sideways—and I'm afraid he won't stop once he gets to me. I start to flinch, but hold my ground. He embraces me in his large arms and says,

"How long it has been, old friend!"

"You can let go now... please..." I grunt.

He lets go and looks me in the eyes.

"How we've missed you, Schwick." He smiles broadly.

I'm still a bit surprised and grateful I still have friends... friends that actually care about me. I grin a half-grin.

"It's good to see ya again, Snow."

Randy appears behind him and stares at me through his large, yellow-rimmed glasses.

"It's actually you... Mike Buschwick..." his eyes reflect surprise and excitement, though his face stays unreadable.

"Remember, kid, it's _Schwick. _Just _Schwick_."

"Oh, yes! I'm sorry!" Is that fear in his eyes? I can't tell. I stretch out my hand to shake his; he takes it stiffly but happily. His hand is cold.

"I'm starting to remember why we called you 'Robot Randy,'" I laugh, and Snow joins in loudly. Randy's eyes reflect some embarrassment.

"Well, you've really grown up," I continue. Before I had left years ago, Randy was very young and new to the urban orphan life.

"Why are you here?" he asks plainly.

"I'm... running from someone.  
He was apparently satisfied with that answer, but that was not so for Snow.

"Who!" he said loudly. "We can find this man and show him what it's like when he threatens our friend!" He pats my back and I clench my teeth so my cigarette wouldn't fly out with the force.

"No, really," I say, "he has more guys on his side. It's not worth it—we wouldn't have a chance."

"For once I agree with Schwick," says Eli. "I'm prepared to _hide_ our friend. Not _fight_ for him."

Defeated, Snow walks to the couch and crashes on it, sideways as if it were a bed. I hear the springs scream under his weight.

"Fine," he says, not angrily. "Welcome back, friend."

* * *

I sit with Mira on the steps and Snow is sleeping loudly on the couch. Eli and Randy, both in plain collared shirts rolled up to the elbows, are sparring near the back of the room. Randy's glasses are on top of the dresser. It's odd to see how big Randy has grown, although he is still smaller than Eli.

Mira has grasped my arm, and I don't feel like making the effort to pull away, so I tolerate it.

"I thought of you every day..." she says softly, as Eli ad Randy jump around, dodging punches. "I worried about you. I'm glad you're okay..."

I shift uncomfortably.

"Yeah, well," I say gruffly. After a moment, "I don't suppose Snow is still seeing Ivana..." I ask, ready to change the subject. Mira's face is expressionless. She stares at Snow, who's still snoring on the couch.

"Ivana... died," she says softly.

I stare at her in shock.

"What? How? When?"

"A couple of years ago," Mira says. "They were walking, and... well, we weren't there, but Ivana fainted of heat-stroke... she hit her head and got a concussion. She was never conscious after that... she bled to death..."

Now we were both looking at Snow—I could see drool in the corner of his open mouth. I felt incredibly sorry for my friend.

"That's... horrible," I manage to say, actually attempting to convey my emotions.

"We don't talk about it." Mira told me."Usually."


	3. The Truth Behind People

**Author's Note:**

I decided to go ahead and add two more chapters for Schwick, because I had a good story idea, and I love his character.

Mira and Eli are original characters created by me, but "Snow" is the humanized "Snowman" from the episodes "The Snowman Cometh" and "Snoman's Revenge." Same with Ivana. "Randy" is the humanized "Robot Randy" from the episode "Robot Randy" and note, they both have the same inner conflicts, though their stories are drastically different.

_Disclaimer: the characters and storyline are copyrighted by John R. Dilworth and Cartoon Network. Although I did make up some parts of the story and some characterizations._

(By the way, I drew the cover art. X3)

**:::Please remember that this is an AU where all the characters are human and the events are realistic.:::**

* * *

After hearing the tragedy of Snow and his girl Ivana, a minute of silence passes and my attention goes back to the sparring Randy and Eli.

Eli's fist collides with Randy's jaw, and Randy leaps backwards. He grasps his cheek and his face twists with pain—the most emotion I've seen from him since I got back.

"Work on dodging, boy!" Eli says loudly. Immediately, Randy lunges toward Eli, meaning to land a blow, but Eli ducks and thrusts his fist upward into Randy's stomach. Randy gives a short cry of surprise and pain, and tumbles to his hands and knees. He stays low to the ground as he tries to collect himself. I feel a little spark of sympathy for the kid(and wonder at how much of a heavy sleeper Snow is for not being woken by the noise).

"Hah! Scoffs Eli. "you call yourself a man?" He kicks Randy, once again in the stomach, and Randy curls up on the ground, tears welling in his squinted eyes.

"Lay off him, already, man!" Mira says sternly. Eli looks up angrily at her.

"You're not the boss, Mira, _I _am!"

"So?"

"So shut up!"

Mira tightens her jaw and returns Eli's glare.

"I_ am_ a man," gasps Randy.

"Oh? Prove it," says Eli.

Randy struggles to his feet. He tries again to punch Eli in the face; his fist is surprisingly quick.

But it isn't quick enough. Eli dodges easily and grabs Randy's arm as it passes by his head. He the pulls Randy around until he's holding him backwards with his arm twisted behind his back. Randy yelps in pain. Eli lifts up a foot and kicks Randy over, releasing his arm. Randy barely catches himself before his face would have hit the floor, and instead, his hands slap loudly on the cement floor. After a short moment, he pushes himself to his feet and holds his shoulder. Tears are brimming in his eyes and his nostrils flare. He blinks; a tear falls onto his cheek.

"Like I said," Eli repeats. "_Prove it_."

"He's just a kid, Eli," I say. Eli scoffs at me.

"As if the world cares if your a kid or not. He needs to _learn_." He pauses for a moment. "Dodge!" he shouts suddenly.

He swings an arm, and before Randy can react, Eli's fist catches him square in the nose. Randy is knocked backward, and slams hard into the water heater on the wall, shouting in pain. He slumps to the ground. Mira lets go of my arm and bolts upward on the stair.

"Eli!" She practically shouts. Snow continues to snore.

Randy is holding his nose; I see blood drip on his clothes from between his fingers. Mira steps off the stairs and approaches Eli. He glares at her intently.

"Help him up, right now!" Mira orders.

"He can get up himself."

"Why are you so cruel to him?"

"You may not have noticed, but the _world_ is cruel!" Eli snaps. "That's why we're _sparring_! I'm preparing him!"

"He's right..." I hear Randy mumble through his bloody hand. "And you're right, too." He lowers his hand. Blood drips from both nostrils past his lips and down his chin. "The world is cruel. I'm not prepared. I'm just a kid." He seems almost angry now, although remarkably his face is still almost expressionless. He grabs his yellow glasses from the dresser and, his hand cupped under his dripping nose, walks quickly up the stairs, squeezing past me. I can see he's trying not to look at me. In a moment, he's gone.

* * *

The cigarette in my mouth is my own this time; Mira had bought me a pack while we were out on the city. She had offered to take a quick walk with me because I was feeling pretty cooped up in the little basement—so now we're walking with our heads down on the crowded sidewalk. It's a bit chilly and dusk is starting to rise above the buildings; I wish I had my jacket.

I see the theater is at the end of the block—the marquee is blinking brightly over the bobbing heads of the crowd walking in front of us. I feel like I want to talk... I pull Mira to the side of the crowd and we stop, alone, on the side of the theater, near the backstage door I was so used to standing against until a week ago.

"Mira... thanks for offering to—"

"No problem, baby."

I sigh.

"Can I tell you something...?"

Normally, I would _never_ tell anyone the things I truly felt... but I'm dying to get something off my chest, and as long as it's in private with someone I trust... I don't see the harm.

"A week ago, the day I was fired... _and_ arrested... I met a family, more like grandparents, with this grandson..."

Mira rests her arms on my shoulders as she listens. I decide to humor her, since I'm taking her time, so I don't push her off. Actually, I'm slightly alarmed: I think part of me likes it. I continue, determined to get it all out.

"The kid seemed really... nervous, aware, terrified even. I... he reminded me of me. I'm always scared... even when you knew me as a kid... scared of failure... scared of people... scared of... relationships..."

Mira says nothing. She takes the cigarette from my mouth gently, drops it on the ground and crushes it with her heel. She takes my collar and pulls me down. We get close enough to touch noses. I can't think. I don't resist. Her lips touch mine and we engage in a long kiss.

* * *

We're back in the room—Snow and Eli are arguing about something, Eli on the couch with a cigarette and Snow behind the couch, leaning on the back with his forearms. Randy looks especially troubled, sitting with a hunched back on the stairs. Of course I can only tell that by glancing directly at his squinted eyes—the rest of his face is placid as usual. I just notice that his nose is bent slightly; it must be broken.

I'm resting on the cold floor with my back against the wall. Mira is beside me, which I'm not opposed to.

I notice Randy is looking at me—I look back, confused. His gaze flickers down to his feet, and he takes off his yellow glasses, wiping them on the bottom of his shirt.

"Can I... talk to you, Schwick?" He says from across the room, putting his glasses back on and pushing them up the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, sure," I say slowly. Randy gets up and walks up the concrete stairs and out of sight. I shrug at Mira and get up as well, walking past Eli and Snow—who don't notice at all, as their argument is heating up. I follow Randy up the stairs. I open the door at the top; Randy is outside in the dark, next to the side of the building.

"What do you wanna say, Randy?" I have no guess as to why he wants to talk to me, and I'm generally curious... the circumstances are odd.

"I want to say," said Randy slowly. "That I've always respected you and I wanted to be just like you."

I get out a cigarette, and, lighting it in my mouth, I mumble,

"What's with the past tense?" I puff the first large breath, blowing smoke between our faces. Randy's eyes look... sad? Afraid? To my surprise, tears accumulate in his eyes.

"What's the problem?"

"I'm sorry," Randy says, in a low voice.

Suddenly, intense pain grips my body. I cough, seizing my chest; the cigarette falls to the ground and glows dimly.

"What the—" I gasp.

"I poisoned the end of your cigarette," I hear Randy say.

I gaze at Randy in shock.

"What! Why—" The pain seizes me and I lean against the wall, feeling the strength of my legs leave. It courses through my veins and squeezes my heart. I cough again; my vision starts to fade.

"You'll be out in two minutes," Randy's voice pierces my ears. "Dead in ten."

"No... what... why?" I drop to my knees, still leaning against the wall with my arm.

"Your boss got a hold of me that day," Randy's voice begins to quiver. "This is the only way I can prove myself... I _am _a man. I can kill someone. You ruined his life."

"_I_ ruined _his_ life?"

"I need to do this, Mike."

"Don't listen to anything he says—it's making you _insane_—" Pain grips me again and I can't help but cry out. I feel cold sweat bead on my forehead... water and saliva drip down my chin. My breaths have become quick, shallow, painful.

"Randy," I manage to gasp. "You don't... need to... do this..." I'm disappointed, shocked, scared, but mostly in pain. I feel my face go pale and another surge of pain courses through me; I can't breathe for a moment. My face touches the pavement—I'm completely on my side against the wall... _How did this happen?_

"Help..." I breathe. My face scrunches and the poison racks my chest. Has it been two minutes? I can't tell.

My vision darkens; the only thing I can focus on is Randy's tear-streaked face.

"I'm sorry," I hear.

_ No you're not_, I think bitterly.

I wish the pain would stop... I can't bear it. I cough, and blood splatters appear on the ground next to my dead cigarette. Although softer than the pounding of blood in my ears, I hear footsteps, rushed and echoing, pound up the stairs, then fade away. I can't hear. I can't see. The pain fogs my mind, strangles me, muffles my heart. I can't breathe.

_I'm going to die..._

* * *

...I see white... am I dead? No, I can't be. It won't be white where I'm going.

I'm breathing hard, and I can't force myself to breathe slower. I think I feel a... _tube_ over my nose and mouth... I look down at myself... I'm on a bed? I try to lift my arms, but I realize I'm chained to the side of the bed with handcuffs. I see an IV in my arm. My eyes dart around the room. I hear the quick-paced beating of a... c_ardiograph_. Hospital. I'm alive, in a hospital, and under arrest.

"He's awake." A muffled, far-away voice.

I think I see someone enter the room. Wait... three people. I recognize one as Mira.

"Mira," I gasp; I try to sit up before the pain accumulates in my stomach and I fall back onto the pillow. "What..."

I see Mira's hands are behind her back... the person behind her is a cop; behind him is a nurse.

"Michael," Mira smiles at me. "You're okay. You were out for a while." I see lines of mascara in stripes up and down her face.

"What happened... Where..." I can't stop myself from coughing.

"We called an ambulance. You're lucky, they said. And... we're all arrested on different charges. But we knew it was worth it. Even Eli is okay with it. And you're okay now."

Guilt... My friends sacrificed... for such a pitiful jerk as _me_...?

"Randy..."

"He... left before the ambulance got there." Mira explains. "He was... ashamed. We don't know where he is." Mira walks to the side of the bed; the police officer follows her closely.

"We... _I_ love you, Michael."

My guilt changes into intense gratitude. I won't cry, but I feel my eyes moisten and my eyebrows furrow with constrained and confused emotion. My friends... Mira... what could they see in me? I scoff inwardly at myself.

"See you in prison, baby," Mira grins; she looks relieved and... happy. The cop escorts her out.

I feel myself smile the same way. And it's for real.


End file.
